


A Long Road

by itsonlyahat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsonlyahat/pseuds/itsonlyahat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about a choice and its consequences. Some mistakes are harder to forgive than others and sometimes the path to friendship is a long, long road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This story is the first piece of fiction I’ve written in a very long time. I’m slowly trying to work my way out of a long period of writer’s block and so constructive comments would be very much appreciated. :)
> 
> The story was supposed to be a one-shot but it’s taken on a bit of a life of its own. I’m hoping to post a chapter every other week until it’s done. Fingers crossed & I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> \- The Hat

Hawke’s body ached and her robes were slick with sweat. She shuffled forward, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth. Aveline and Fenris had taken the lead and Hawke’s mabari Spark panted beside her, his head drooping with tiredness. Merrill trudged on behind them, her footsteps sometimes stumbling.

Maker, she was tired. Aveline had had a tip about some raiders holding up caravans along the Wounded Coast and they’d gone to investigate. There’d been far more of them than Aveline’s information had suggested though. Even with two mages on their side, it had been a near thing. Hawke had almost taken an arrow in the shoulder but Merrill had done something – Hawke wasn’t sure what – and suddenly there had been lightning raining down all around them, each bright flash accompanied by its own peal of thunder. The sound had been deafening; the ground had shaken with it. The spell had almost been too much for Merrill. She’d nearly collapsed but suddenly Aveline and Fenris had pushed forward, fighting back-to-back until, abruptly, they were the only ones standing.

Hawke wiped at her eyes; they were stinging with sweat. She couldn’t understand how it could be so hot when they were so close to the Amaranthine Sea. The salt in the sea air seemed to cling to her as much as her robes were.

“Aveline –”

“No Fenris, I won’t hear any more of it!”

Hawke’s eyes snapped up. She’d been in such a daze that she hadn’t realized that Aveline and Fenris had been arguing.

“What is it, you two?” she asked. Both turned to face her, anger mirrored on their faces.

“We need to stop and rest for a time.”

“Why? We’re only-” Hawke took note of her surroundings, “what, a few more hours from Kirkwall?”

“Fenris is –”

“I am fine, Aveline.”

Aveline crossed her arms.

“No, you’re not. You’re injured.”

“What?” Hawke asked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s nothing,” Fenris said dismissively.

“Bullshit,” Aveline replied. “You’re limping and I’ve seen your hands trembling. I’m not going to keep trudging along, waiting for you pass out. We need to rest and tend to your injury.”

“These hills aren’t safe,” Fenris said.

“Exactly,” Aveline replied. “And I won’t have you collapsing on us when we need you.”

“I said I’m fine, Aveline.”

“And I say you’re a shit liar, Fenris. Hawke?”

Hawke shook her head.

“Aveline’s right, Fenris. If you’re hurt –”

“Hawke –”

She shook her head again.

“No, Fenris. I agree with Aveline. It’s too dangerous. Besides, we’re all tired. I’m sure we could all use a rest.”

“There’s that spot closer to the ocean, do you remember it Hawke? Last time we were there, Isabela said she wanted to go swimming.”

Hawke smiled.

“I remember. That’s a good idea, Merrill. We’ll have our backs to the sea and there’s only the one path down. If anyone gets curious…”

Hawke trailed off and looked at Aveline. The guardswoman nodded.

“A defensible position. Fenris?”

Fenris shook his head and crossed his arms but said nothing more.

“Okay then,” Hawke said, taking his silence for grudging consent. “We’ll make for the stone shelf. Aveline can keep watch and I’ll –” Hawke took a breath; she felt like she could barely call up a spark, let alone do a healing –“I’ll see what I can do to help Fenris.”

Fenris said nothing but Aveline and Merrill both nodded. Fenris turned on his heels, deliberately taking the lead. Aveline rolled her eyes.

“I’ll walk with him,” Hawke said. “You stay with Merrill. Come on, Spark,” she said and her mabari barked, wagging his tail tiredly.

Hawke jogged a bit to catch up to Fenris. The elf fairly bristled with hostility but said nothing. Hawke looked at him askance. He did look paler than usual and there was a certain stiffness in the way he held himself that suggested he was in pain.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Fenris lied.

“Fenris,” she complained. “You know that Aveline’s right. She’s just worried about you. And now I am too.”

Fenris let out a breath.

“It is nothing, Hawke,” he replied. Hawke sighed.

“If it was nothing then we would be still heading to Kirkwall. You gave in to Aveline, which means that you either agreed with her or at least knew that you shouldn’t argue with her, which is more or less the same thing. So, what is it?”

Fenris said nothing for some time.

“I was foolish; my attention was distracted. I left my back unprotected. The pain is not unbearable.”

“Why do I have this funny feeling that that might be an understatement?”

Fenris shrugged and Hawke caught that minute wince that crossed his face. She swore under her breath.

“Just – ah – don’t do this again. Blessed Andraste, you need to tell me these things!”

Fenris said nothing but from the way he shifted his weight and gave her a sidelong glance…

“Void take you, are you laughing at me, Fenris?”

“Not at all.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

Fenris said nothing but a very small smirk was playing at the sides of his mouth.

“Arg, I should just let you suffer! That would teach you a lesson. I could let you get some nasty infection and let you rave at me deliriously for a few days before I do anything.”

Fenris chuckled and then winced.

“That would be – unpleasant,” he supplied.

“Maker, next time you do this, _I’m_ going to stab you.”

“We turn left here, Hawke!” Merrill called from a few steps behind. Hawke waved her acknowledgement and took the downwards sloping path.

Their would-be camp site was a flat, rocky outcrop ringed by scraggly plants about ten feet above the sea. Hawke could hear the waves crashing below. Beyond the jagged rocks, she could just make out the prow of a shattered ship.

“Atmospheric,” she muttered under her breath. She put her hands on her hips.

“Okay, you –” she said, pointing at Fenris. “Go – sit down or something. Aveline, can you keep watch up the path? But stay out of sight, please. Merrill, maybe you can do something about dinner? It’s later than I thought it was.”

The two women nodded and Aveline trudged back up the path. Merrill slung her pack down and started rummaging around, humming to herself. Hawke turned to see Fenris still standing beside her.

“Ug, fine. _Stand then_. I don’t even know what kinds of potions I have on me.”

Hawke slipped her pack off her shoulder and made a great show of rummaging around in it. Eventually, Fenris stepped away from her. Hawke glanced up and saw that he had moved to the furthest edge of the rocky plateau to sit down. She dug around in her pack a bit longer before she found the small, tightly bound leather bag that held her supply of healing potions, poultices, and bandages. She smiled and looked over at her mabari.

“You stay with Merrill, okay Spark?” she asked. Her mabari huffed his agreement and trotted off to lie down at the elf’s side.

Hawke walked over to where Fenris was sitting. He watched her come somewhat warily and Hawke gave him a small, tight smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I think that I have everything I need.”

“I’m not worried,” he said but he made no move to accommodate her.

Hawke sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

“Fenris – you’re not really making this easy for me.”

He said nothing and Hawke plunked down in front of him.

“Don’t you think you should take this off?” she asked, gesturing at his breast plate.

Fenris gave her a long, steady look. Then, he cast a glance back at Merrill. Hawke sighed.

“Fenris,” Hawke said quietly. “Please, I’m trying to help. But – but if you really don’t want me to then… Then we’ll just sit here and when Aveline comes back we’ll say that I did the best that I could and we’ll just have to take our chances on our way back to Kirkwall. It’s up to you.”

Fenris fixed her with a hard look and Hawke repressed an urge to shudder. Whenever he looked at her that way, she knew that she was being weighed; judged. She was afraid that one day he would find her lacking. Eventually, he nodded.

Without speaking, Fenris half-turned so that he was sitting at an angle to her. He tried to lift his arms to remove his breastplate but flinched visibly.

“Here, let me,” Hawke said quietly. She shuffled forward on her knees – it wasn’t like her robes weren’t already filthy – so that she was sitting close behind him. “How do I do this?” she asked.

“There is a catch – the strap on my back.”

Hawke nodded. The catch detached with an audible click. She watched, strangely fascinated as Fenris worked at catches she couldn’t see to unhook his gauntlets from the main body of his armor. He nodded.

“Now – I must…” He shifted his weight and Hawke understood. She stood and, very gently, helped him peel the shell of his armor off.

“This is heavier than it looks,” she observed. He gave a short laugh.

“It would be little use if it was not.”

Fenris carefully laid his breastplate aside and sat back down carefully, keeping his back very straight. Hawke held back a sigh. Fenris’s black under-tunic was sticky with blood and there was a long, ugly gash that ran along it. Hawke traced the line of it with her hand, careful not to touch the frayed fabric or angry, red skin. She could faintly make out the ridges of lyrium that were worked into his back. This time, Hawke did sigh.

“Fenris, this will need to come off too,” she said quietly. Suddenly, she was very conscious of the open space around them and Merrill’s presence just a few feet away.

“Merrill?” Hawke called, turning to face the elf. “Would you mind taking some water and rations up to Aveline, please? And, now that I think about it, maybe it would be a good idea if you stayed with her. You never know – if there are any more raiders out there and they have mages with them, Aveline will need you.”

Merrill rose to her feet.

“Of course, Hawke,” she said easily, smiling. If Merrill suspected her ulterior motives she gave no sign of it. Hawke gave her a quick, tight smile.

“Thank you, Merrill.”

When Merrill had gathered her things and disappeared up the path, Hawke felt Fenris relax very slightly. Hawke let out a breath.

“We can do this two ways, Fenris,” she said quietly. “The easy way would be to cut your tunic off you. Or, we can peel it off. If I do that, it’ll hurt.”

Fenris was quiet for a moment.

“I cannot wear the armor without the tunic and I do not have another.”

Hawke let out a breath.

“I was afraid you’d see it that way. Okay. Do we do this fast or slow?”

“The wound will be aggravated regardless, Hawke.”

Hawke swallowed and nodded.

“Okay. Fast it is.”

She adjusted her weight, her hands resting at the hem of Fenris’s tunic. It was a type of material she didn’t recognize. Its toughness suggested some kind of leather but it was surprisingly light and felt quite breathable.

“What is this made out of?” Hawke asked.

“Danarius never deigned to inform me. He did insist, however, that it was very expensive. Another one of his conceits.”

“He seems to have a lot of those,” Hawke muttered. She was stalling and Fenris knew it. She steeled herself.

“Ready?” She asked. He nodded, half-raising his arms.

“Okay. Here it goes…”

Hawke dug her hands into edge of the tunic and in one quick motion pulled the fabric up to his shoulders. Fenris let out a gasp and then shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke murmured, helping Fenris pull the tunic over his head.

“It is nothing,” he said, the words stiff with pain. Hawke swallowed again and sat back down behind Fenris. The wound was bleeding freely now and Hawke dabbed carefully at it with a clean cloth.

She tried to ignore the tracings of lyrium that ran in intricate lines and spirals down his back. Hawke felt oddly ashamed of herself. It seemed wrong to have him so exposed in front of her. She knew that she hadn’t earned enough of his trust for this and yet here they were.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, more quietly. Fenris said nothing. She sensed that the stiffness with which he held himself was not entirely due to the pain. Hawke took a deep, silent breath.

She had never been much of a healer. Bethany had had that knack in her family. Hawke had watched her sister mend scraped knees, twisted ankles, broken bones; always with a gentle smile and a warm laugh. It had been so very easy to feel safe with her. In comparison, Hawke felt as comforting as a pile of bricks. She swallowed.

“It’s a long gash,” she described quietly. “It runs from the left side of the small of your back to the base of your right shoulder.” _Maker_ , she thought. _How had he been walking in armor with this?_ “It’s not too deep but it’s very inflamed. And –” she hesitated. “It bisects several of the lyrium lines along your back.”

Hawke mopped a bit more of the blood, disturbed at the abrupt transition of angry red flesh to the flat mineral texture of the lyrium lines. Up close, they didn’t look much like tattoos. Instead, Hawke thought that they looked more like the dull grey of knife wounds long scarred over. With a flash of insight, she understood that that was exactly what they were. Danarius had made channels in his skin and then –

She drew back from the thought and tried to centre herself; to find some semblance of calm.

“I have a poultice that has an anesthetic in it,” she said, willing her voice to be steady. “It will numb your wound and then I can bind it for you. You won’t be able to fight though and this will take… maybe three weeks to heal completely. Or,” she took a breath, “or I can heal it for you now.”

The words seemed to hang between them. Hawke held her breath and tried to make herself as small as possible.

 _Oh Bethany,_ she thought. Bethany would’ve known what to say; would’ve been able to – to help him trust her, somehow.

It was a long time before Fenris spoke.

“We are still hours from Kirkwall,” he said, his tone flat and expressionless. “Do what you must.”

Hawke nodded. She was surprised by the small, hard knot of pain his words sparked in her but she forced it aside.

 _Enough_ , she thought. _This isn’t about you_. She took a deep breath.

“Okay. Tell me when you’re ready.”

Fenris balled his fists and nodded.

Carefully, Hawke began to draw in her magic. As always, she felt like she was pulling in energy from all around her; the rocks, the small hard-scrabble plants; the waves of the ocean; the air. She pulled it all in towards herself, melding it together.

She felt Fenris tense and the lyrium sparked in angry lines along his back. The pulse sent a shock through her and she suddenly had a queasy sense of double-vision.

 _Fenris_? she asked, reaching the thought out. He flinched away and she understood. _He can feel this_ , she realized. The lyrium sang in her blood, pulling her in towards it. She anchored herself in place but it was so difficult to resist that aching tide.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, his voice a strained, dusty thing.

 _I’m hurting him_ , she realized, the thought cutting like a knife through the hypnotic hum of the lyrium. _I will not_ \- she asserted firmly, perhaps to the call itself.

With a colossal effort, she divided the sea of energy around them. She created a cone of stillness between them. She pulled back - further and further away. She drew from the distant rocks; from the crumbling timbers of the ship lost at sea; from the surrounding hills. Anything to anchor her; to help her resist that call.

Distantly, she was aware of Merrill shivering.

 _Hawke?_ came the thought but she pushed it away. She needed to focus. She needed…

_Brown hair; laughing eyes. A face that was twin to her brother’s. Carver – had he laughed since she had died?_

Hawke flinched back. She didn’t want – she pulled at another thread.

_Black hair; serious eyes. A face that was twin to his; red hair, laughing eyes. Hidden things, small hidden things._

She felt more than heard Fenris moan. He lurched forward, his hands planting into the dirt. He was shaking.

It wasn’t enough. The lyrium flared brighter. They were too close; she was losing the shape of things. She was unravelling. It was –

The lyrium was singing in her blood. _I can use this_ , she thought – wild elation. She could pull it in, drain its energy and rebuild herself. She could –

_The slave sprawled at her feet, gasping and retching. The power flowed through her, rising up like a tide of blood. With this, she could do unimaginable things. She could pull down every wretch in the Magisterium and build Tevinter anew. She just needed more -_

She reached out.

**_Hawke!_ **

Merrill’s thought pierced her like an arrow. She staggered back, blinded.

_Not like that, Hawke. You’re hurting him._

Hawke fought down a sudden wave of nausea. Her magic roared around her, untethered. The slave was at her feet, in his proper place. She could –

Fenris retched, his whole body shaking.

_Focus, Hawke. Focus on the healing._

Healing. She remembered. Her sister, smiling. Her brother – he’d; he’d fallen from a tree and broken his arm. Bethany had laid her hands on his arm and…

 _Yes, like that, Hawke. Focus on the healing_.

Hawke reached forward. Through blurry eyes, she could see that her hands glowed a pale blue. The lyrium lines had begun to pulse with the same colour.

_Carefully, Hawke. Be very gentle._

Hawke blinked tears from her eyes.

 _It hurts,_ she groaned and distantly she heard the sound repeated, echoed back to her from someone else.

_I know, lethallan. I know. Go gently now._

She prayed for stillness. Around them, her magic roared; inside, she formed a protective sphere of silence, a small core of peace.

Carefully, so carefully, she felt the bleeding slow. Gently, she coaxed the muscle and the skin to knit together.

She knew this man. She inhabited his skin, his muscle, his bone, his blood. She knew him. She felt all of his years – how many years? She tasted blood in her mouth. Had she bitten her own tongue?

She felt the red hot whine of the lyrium beneath her skin. It was screaming; denied; undirected. It was –

Another wave of nausea rolled up into her and she groaned. It wouldn’t heal. It was wrong – it was so wrong – but she couldn’t knit it together; she couldn’t undo this. She felt a rising panic. They’d cut into her skin, into her muscle, into her bone and she would never be rid of it. The metallic taste of blood was rising up in her mouth and she was choking on it. She couldn’t –

_No, Hawke. It can’t be healed. You’ll hurt yourself trying._

_Oh, please_ , she begged of no one. She wrenched herself away from the lightning pain that ran through her body. Her skin was full of knives. Maker, she was so tired. She couldn’t – she couldn’t finish this.

 _Nearly there, Hawke_. _Nearly there_.

 _Father, please_ , she begged, her words reaching out into the Void. They echoed back to her in stillness.

Stillness. She pulled it close to herself. She pulled it in and pushed out; reaching.

Abruptly, the light was gone and she collapsed forward. She was resting against someone. They were shuddering.

Fine fingers were against her shoulder, pushing her back. She tried to fight them off. That person – that person – she needed to help them. Didn’t they understand?

“It’s alright, Hawke. It’s done now. It’s all over.”

Hawke blinked her. A woman’s hazy form swam in front of her eyes.

“Merrill?” she asked, unsure. Merrill smiled.

“Yes, it’s alright Hawke. Fenris is fine. You did very well. It’s all over now.”

A terrible tremble worked itself out from Hawke’s core until she found that she was shaking. She was untethered; unhinged. She couldn’t keep the storm inside anymore.

“Oh, Merrill!” she cried, falling forward.

She wept like a broken child until the dark swept in.

* * *

“Explain it one more time, Merrill. Slowly. Talk to me like I’m a child if you have to.”

“Oh, Aveline. You could never be a child. Well, you were once, of course, but not now – not really.”

Hawke stirred where she was lying. Her head ached terribly. Without opening her eyes, she listened to the two women talking quietly.

“Merrill. I’m not a mage and even I could hear – whatever in the name of the Maker that was.”

“Magic – it was undirected magic. Hawke – she nearly lost control, that’s all.”

Yes, she remembered. She hadn’t been able to find an anchor. She’d reached out and – things were hazy.

“That’s all? Merrill!”

“Shh, you’ll wake them!”

“They’ve been passed out for hours. I think we could be sitting in the middle of a hurricane and they wouldn’t wake. In fact, I feel like _I_ just sat through a hurricane. Flames, was that all Hawke?”

“Not really. The lyrium was feeding it. Hawke’s – well, she’s never been a very good healer. It’s difficult for mages to tackle spells that we aren’t well-aligned with. It’s a bit – a bit like how you use a sword and shield but Isabela uses knives. Magic is different in everyone.”

“Fine. That doesn’t explain why she nearly sawed this bluff in half.”

“The lyrium sent her awry. Lyrium can be – distracting, in a way that’s hard to explain. Sometimes, I feel like lyrium has – well, not a mind of its own but something like that. Lyrium bends the rules of things. It’s a bit like standing in the Fade. Things that should be impossible suddenly aren’t. It lets you do things that you couldn’t do otherwise. And if you’re exhausted, lyrium can remake you. It’s a terrifying thing, really.”

Yes, that was right. There had been a pull – a terrible pull. She’d tried to divert the flow around her but she hadn’t been able to.

“Hawke … nearly did something she would have regretted terribly.”

“What, Merrill?”

“No, it’s not for me to say. It’s between them now.”

Tears stung Hawke’s eyes. Oh yes, now she remembered. Hawke rolled away from the sound of the two women’s voices, instinctively trying to shield her face from. Maker, what had she nearly done?

Blearily, she opened her eyes. The world swam in a haze of tears. There was an indistinct form lying beside her. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes.

Fenris.

She could just make out his darkened form outlined against the light of Merrill’s and Aveline’s small fire. Someone, probably Aveline, had set out a bedroll for him. He was within arms-reach of her.

Suddenly, the space between them felt agonizing. She needed – she wasn’t sure. She could still feel the echo of him under her skin. That she had nearly… it was unbearable.

 _Fenris_ , she quested out and the form beside her twitched, curling in on itself.

“Hawke,” Merrill’s voice snapped. The other mage was at her side in a minute.

 _Oh, Merrill_ , Hawke groaned inwardly.

“Stop that!” Merrill scolded, her tone unusually harsh. “Hawke, you have to focus. You’re – it’s like you’re bleeding magic. You need to stay centred. Be small, lethallan.”

“Merrill,” Hawke tried; her voice sounded scratchy and harsh. “What happened? What’s – what’s wrong with me.”

Merrill placed a cool hand on her burning forehead.

“Your magic got away from you, that’s all.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Aveline snorted. Merrill tossed her an angry glance over her shoulder and then focused back on the prone woman in front of her.

“The lyrium – it pulled you away from your focus. It was like – like your magic was being diverted, somehow.”

“I,” Hawke swallowed. “I could have killed him,” she whispered.

“But you didn’t.”

“Merrill, for a moment I wanted–”

“No, Hawke. You didn’t. I think that the mage who – who did this to Fenris had a, a design in mind. You just got pulled in along the wrong course.”

Hawke could still feel it – that aching slide. Oh, how she wanted…

Merrill wrapped a hard knuckle on her forehead.

“No! Stop that, Hawke. You’re still too tied up together, even now. You have to stop reaching.”

With a huge effort, Hawke tried to pull back. It was like trying to walk backwards up a steep rocky slope. Every time she moved, she felt the earth sliding away beneath her. Bit by bit, she tried to inch herself back up the hill.

“That’s better,” Merrill said eventually. “At least you’re a little quieter. Instead of shouting from the rooftops, you’re just talking a little too loudly and it’s sort of annoying; that’s all.”

Hawke laughed and then winced. Maker, her chest hurt; no, her whole body ached.

“You’ll be alright,” Merrill assured her. Hawke glanced at the sleeping form on her right.

“And Fenris?” she asked.

“He’ll – he’ll be fine too, Hawke. Eventually. He’s been sleeping this whole time. He might be a little grumpy in the morning but that won’t really be any different than usual, will it?”

Hawke gave a small, bitter laugh.

“I think he’ll be a little bit more than just grumpy, Merrill.”

Hawke swallowed around the hard lump in her throat and Merrill made a small noise.

“Oh, Hawke. Get some rest. Things won’t look so bleak in the morning.”

Hawke shut her eyes tight, a few stray tears escaping. She nodded tightly.

“Alright,” she murmured.

“Now, I’m going to do something that will help you sleep. Don’t fight me, okay?”

Hawke nodded again without opening her eyes.

“Okay,” she agreed.

A gentle wave of exhaustion swept over her and her limbs suddenly felt incredibly heavy. The tension seemed to bleed out of her until she felt herself floating up, out and away. Then the world went blank.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did none of the things that I expected it to. I hope that it works!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, or left kudos on the last chapter. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, so I really appreciate it! 
> 
> \- The Hat.

Hawke was dreaming. The part that lived and breathed the Fade always knew when she slipped into sleep. She recognized the wild, changing otherness of the Fade the same way an old mariner could taste the salt of the sea a mile inland from shore.

 _Mages never really sleep_ , her father had told her once. _We just have different kinds of awake_.

Sometimes the Fade was a strange and bewildering place, the Black City hollow and menacing just at the edge of the horizon. Other times, it was small and quiet. It was your favourite hiding place as a child; the creak of your grandmother’s rocking chair; the sound of a friend’s voice.

The quiet places were often the most dangerous. They spoke to the things that people most longed for and so demons lingered there, waiting.

But this dream was such a simple thing, the shape of it familiar and comforting. It wasn’t what she would have expected. If there was a demon at work here then it was clever but –

There was sunlight and the dusty smell of warm stone. She sat on the steps outside of her uncle’s house in Lowtown. She was mending a pair of trousers, her needle flickering in and out of the fabric.

The streets were strangely empty, as if the normal crowds had been carefully drawn aside. It was peaceful; a kind of peace she hadn’t felt since before leaving Lothering.

Behind her came the soft sound of a shifting body. Fenris’s voice was calm and quiet, a warm burr between them.

In the manner of dreams, Hawke floated above herself, above them both. Her Hawke-self laughed and replied, her face hidden by her hair as she focused on her needlework. Fenris sat a few steps above her, his eyes flickering to the street, to her hands, to her long copper-red hair. Their voices were quiet; comfortable.

Hawke couldn’t remember why Fenris had lingered at her uncle’s that day, what they had talked about or if they had talked very much at all. She just remembered the sound of his voice at her back and the warmth of the sun-kissed stone around her.

Hawke circled the scene like an albatross, spiralling upwards on motionless wings. She watched the two figures grow smaller and smaller below. Long after she had lost sight of them she could still hear their voices; quiet, warm, and familiar.

* * *

Hawke awoke to pain. She groaned and instinctively curled in around herself, regretting it instantly as sparks and shivers shot all through her.

“Maker’s breath,” she groaned and then coughed, her throat raw and dry. Someone pressed a cool cup of something – water – against her mouth and she drank it gratefully.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Hawke.”

“Aveline?” Hawke asked, trying to sit up and then thinking better of it. Instead, she rubbed at her eyes and blinked Aveline into focus.

“You look awful,” Aveline said simply. Hawke laughed and then winced as something in her chest stabbed her. She pressed a careful hand to her side, feeling for a broken rib but finding none.

“Where’s –” she tried but Aveline cut her off.

“Merrill’s just up the way, keeping watch. Fenris took off with your mabari at first light this morning.”

“He what?” Hawke demanded. She tried to lurch upright but the world swam and she felt her stomach clench. Carefully, she lay back down.

“It’s done, Hawke. There’s no point worrying about it now.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

Aveline gave her a look that Hawke’s mother would’ve been proud of.

“Do you think I didn’t try? For some reason, he didn’t really feel like sticking around.”

Hawke felt the sting of Aveline’s words but tried to duck around them.

“What time – ”

“It’s about half past noon now.”

“Then we have to-”

Aveline pushed a firm hand against Hawke’s chest to keep her from trying to sit up again.

“You’re going to stay right there. I’m going to get Merrill and you’re not going to move a muscle before I get back. Understood?”

Hawke felt like lowest rank of recruit firmly stuck under Aveline’s boot. She nodded.

“Good,” Aveline said, her armour creaking as she stood. She gave Hawke another stern look before heading off in search of Merrill.

Hawke closed her eyes and concentrated on not moving for a time, trying and failing to take stock of her injuries. They all bled into an ill-defined mess of pain. Nothing felt broken but her whole body felt like she’d been on the losing side of a fight with a thunderstorm.

Something rustled at her side and Merrill placed a cool hand on her forehead.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. Hawke almost laughed but stopped first, remembering her ribs.

 “Is there a word that’s worse than ‘terrible’?”

“Dreadful, maybe,” Merrill replied lightly. “No – wait; abysmal. Abysmal is much better.”

Hawke nodded and then winced.

“You’re right, it is.”

Hawke blinked some of the blurriness away from her eyes to focus on Merrill’s face.

“Fenris –” she started but Merrill shook her head.

“We tried, Hawke, but he wouldn’t listen to either of us. At least your mabari went with him; refused to be left behind, actually.”

“Smart dog,” Hawke said absently. “Was Fenris alright?”

Merrill shrugged delicately.

“He was about the same as usual. Here, drink this,” she said, pressing a small bottle of potion into Hawke’s hand. Hawke drank it without complaint, suspecting that both Merrill and Aveline were deliberately trying to steer her away from the subject of their friend. Resolutely, Hawke pressed.

“Was he hurt?”

“Fenris is strong, Hawke,” Merrill answered, sidestepping the question. “He’ll be alright.”

“But why didn’t either of you go with him?” she asked, her voice rising. Aveline answered from somewhere Hawke couldn’t see.

“Oh yes, Hawke – I should’ve abandoned Merrill on the Wounded Coast with a passed-out mage. Or, better yet, I should’ve sent Merrill off with Fenris because I’m obviously well-equipped to handle magic gone amok.”

“Sorry; I didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Aveline,” Merrill chided.

Hawke heard the guardswoman get to her feet.

“I’ll be keeping watch. See what you can do to get her back on her feet. We’ve lingered here too long already.”

Hawke heard Aveline’s heavy footfalls thump away. When she was out of earshot, Merrill spoke quietly.

 “She’ll come around,” she said. Hawke didn’t reply and they were both quiet for a time.

“Please, tell me the truth Merrill. Was Fenris alright?”

Merrill sighed.

“He was – shaky. Pale. But I think that he’ll be alright.” She hesitated. “He was very angry.”

Hawke swallowed and nodded. The words sat like a heavy weight in her chest. She sighed around them.

“He should be,” she said quietly.

Resolutely, Hawke pushed herself into a sitting position. The world lurched around her again but to her surprise the pain had dulled somewhat. She looked at the small glass vial in her hand.

“A restorative?” she asked curiously. “What’s in it?”

“I’m not sure,” Merrill admitted. “It’s one of Anders’s. It’s the only one I had, I’m afraid.”

“It’s alright,” Hawke replied. “We need to get going.”

Hawke said the words without any inflection but both women heard what was sitting underneath them. It was a long way back to Kirkwall and the roads weren’t safe, especially for travellers who made their way alone.

Merrill placed a hand lightly on Hawke’s upper arm before moving away to start striking their camp.

Hawke suppressed a sigh and turned to look out at the expanse of the sea. She took in the waves without really seeing them. She felt ancient and drained. She couldn’t say how long it was until Merrill’s voice came quietly from behind her.

“Hawke? We’re ready. It’s time to go.”

Hawke sighed and turned to face her friends. She tried to smile but it had no feeling in it.

“Okay, let’s go home.”

* * *

The walk back to Kirkwall was an empty blur. Hawke was vaguely aware of passing stones and half-dead trees. Mostly, she concentrated on keeping her feet moving in the right direction. She leaned on her staff as if it was walking stick and moved with a slightly limping gait.

Step. Step. _Scrape_. Step. Step. _Scrape_. Step. Step.

“Captain’s right cross with you, Guardswoman.”

Hawke stiffened and looked up. A squad of four of Kirkwall’s city guardsmen were blocking the road. She blinked and squinted past them. She could just make out the city walls in the distance. She’d been concentrating so much on her shuffling feet that she hadn’t realized how far they’d travelled.

“And why is that, Guardsman?” Aveline asked, her tone not entirely hiding the bite in her voice. One of the men snickered and their leader glared at him.

“The Captain’s heard a rumour that you and your – _friends_ ,” he said, making the word a sneer in Merrill’s direction, “were out here doing some ‘tidying up’ on the roads.”

“Since when is what I do when I'm off duty the Captain’s business?”

“It’s _always_ the Captain’s business, Guardswoman,” the older man rebuked. Hawke thought that she recognized the man’s voice and tried to get a clearer view of his face under his visor. One of Jeven’s cronies no doubt. “We can’t have amateurs out here giving the guard a bad name.”

Aveline snorted.

“If I were out to give the guard a bad name, you’d be the first to know it, Garril.”

“Why you Ferelden b-”

“Come on, Garril,” one of the other men interrupted. “We’ve gotta hurry if we’re gonna make the rendezvous.”

Garril gave the other man a dirty look and he shrugged.

“Cap’ll take a piece outta her if he wants to. But I’d rather not get it because we were late on patrol.”

“He’s right, Garril,” Aveline said sweetly. “We wouldn’t want to give the guard a bad name.”

Garril spat off to the side of the road and growled.

“Come on, you lazy pieces of shit. Let’s move out.”

Aveline stood her ground and forced the group of men to divide around her. She turned and watched them go.

“Bastard,” she swore. “I know he’s in the Coterie’s pocket and one day I’ll have the proof I need.”

“Will you really get in trouble with your Captain, Aveline?” Merrill asked nervously.

“For doing him a favour? Void take him if I do. Let’s get on. I’ve had just about enough of the Wounded Coast.”

For Hawke, it seemed like no time at all until they found themselves in the queue of people waiting to be let into the city. She lost herself for a time in the cacophony of raised voices and braying pack mules.

“Right,” Aveline said, catching her attention. “Merrill, when we get in, you’ll take Hawke home to Lowtown. I need to go to the barracks and file a report. I have no idea how that many raiders were able to set an ambush so close to the caravan route without anyone noticing.”

“Fenris—” Hawke started but Aveline cut her off with a gesture.

“I’ll look in on him on my way to the barracks. If he’s in bad shape, I’ll send for Anders. Otherwise-”

“I can go,” Hawke protested. Aveline gave her a hard look.

“Hawke, you and I both know that Fenris won’t want to see you right now.” At Hawke’s stricken expression, Aveline softened her tone. “I know that’s hard, but it’s the truth. Besides, Leandra is probably worried sick.”

Hawke blanched. She hadn’t thought of her mother once since they’d left Kirkwall. Aveline caught the expression and gave a small sigh.

“Hadn’t thought of that, had you? Honestly, Hawke. Your poor mother.”

Merrill put a gentle hand on Hawke’s shoulder.

“I’m sure Fenris is alright, Hawke,” she said with more conviction than she likely felt. “And Aveline will let us know either way, won’t you Aveline?”

The guardswoman nodded.

“Of course,” she said. She waved at the gate guard and he urged their party in with a tired motion of his hand.

“Why are you letting them pass?” A merchant squealed as they passed. “I’ve been here all morning!”

“Because she’s a bloody _guardswoman,_ you poncy Orlesian bastard. You’ll wait here all day if I want you to. Next!”

“Right,” Aveline said as they entered the city. She fished around in her purse and pressed four silver coins into Hawke’s hand and then gave the same to Merrill. “Fair compensation, as promised.”

“Aveline—” Hawke started but the older woman cut her off.

“No, Hawke. I said I’d pay you for your time. Besides, I know you’re not nearly as far along as you want to be for that expedition of yours.”

Hawke winced and tucked the coins into her purse.

“I try not to think about that,” she said. Aveline rolled her eyes.

“Yes, because avoidance is always the best strategy. Well,” she said, looking around. “I’d better be off. I’ll send a runner later on in the day. Take care.”

Merrill gave Aveline a hearty wave that the guardswoman acknowledged with a nod.

“She is something, isn’t she?” Merrill asked when she’d left. Hawke gave a tired chuckle.

“She’s definitely something,” she agreed. “I’m not always sure what, but she’s something.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, wincing at the aches it sparked along her shoulder and neck.

“Let’s go,” she said simply. They set off for Lowtown.

* * *

Hawke stood at the base of the steps leading up to Gamlen’s small house. She’d sent Merrill on her way a few minutes earlier, insisting that she’d be fine on her own. After all, it was just her family; there was nothing to worry about.

Sighing deeply, Hawke walked up the stairs slowly. Her knees ached and she leaned heavily against her staff. She reached the hovel’s door and paused at the sound of raised voices. The door didn’t fit well in its setting. Hawke could hear her brother’s voice as clearly as if she were standing inside.

“I’ll be fine, mother.”

“Waste of bloody time, if you ask me,” her uncle growled. “You wouldn’t even know where to look.”

“I know where they went, more or less,” Carver bristled.

“More or less. So reassuring,” her uncle spat.

“Well don’t fall over yourself trying to be helpful!” Carver shouted.

“Please, don’t fight,” her mother pleaded.

“It’s not my fault your sister’s a meddlesome idiot who—”

Hawke pushed in the door.

“Who what, uncle?” she asked flatly. She would’ve laughed at her uncle’s expression if she wasn’t so bone-wrenchingly tired.

“Darling!” her mother cried.

“Maker's breath, where have you been?” Carver demanded.

Hawke started to reply but then noticed Spark sprawled against the right side of the room.

“Hey boy!” she called, ignoring her brother and kneeling down in front of the mabari. The dog gave a few shakes of his tail and Hawke scratched his ears. Under her breath, she asked, “You got him home safe before coming here, didn’t you boy?” Spark gave a tired woof of agreement and Hawke felt some of the tension leave her. “Good dog,” she complimented, giving Spark a few rough pats on his neck.

“Well? Don’t be in too much of a rush.” Carver spat. Hawke sighed and stood, her joints creaking.

“We were – delayed. On the Coast.”

When Hawke didn’t elaborate, her brother bristled.

“That’s it?” Carver demanded. “You sent the damn _dog_ home but you couldn’t – I don’t know – send a note or something? How fucking selfish can you be?”

“Carver,” her mother cautioned but Carver sped on.

“You could’ve been dead for all we knew and –”

“Aw,” Hawke cooed sarcastically, cutting her brother off. “Were you worried about me, baby brother?”

Carver’s face went flat and furious and Hawke regretted her words instantly.

“Carver, I’m sorry. I’m tired and –”

“Fuck you,” he swore. He grabbed a pack at his feet and hefted it to his shoulders.

“Carver,” Leandra started but then stopped, unsure what to say. He softened somewhat and gave her a soft peck on the cheek.

“I’m going out,” he told her quietly, ignoring Hawke and Gamlen. He brushed past Hawke roughly and slammed the door.

“Darling,” her mother chided and Hawke sighed.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. She leaned heavily against the wall and closed her eyes. There was a long, strained silence and eventually Leandra sighed.

“Well, let’s get you to bed. You look exhausted.”

Hawke felt her mother tug lightly at her arm and she sighed, pushing herself off the wall. She let herself be led to the small room she shared with Carver. Hawke wrinkled her nose. No matter how she and her mother cleaned, they could never get smell of damp and mould out of the air.

Hawke slumped onto her bed and struggled with the laces of her boots.

“Let me, dear,” her mother said. She spoke quietly without looking at her daughter. “You shouldn’t be so dismissive of your brother, you know. He was worried about you. We all were.”

“Even dear uncle Gamlen?” Hawke joked.

“Never mind your uncle. And don’t change the subject.” Hawke sighed.

“I know – I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to, dear,” her mother chided. Hawke let out a breath.

“I’ll add him to my list.”

Her mother gave her a quizzical look but Hawke shook her head tiredly.

“It’s nothing,” she lied. “I’m just – very tired.”

“Is everything alright?” her mother asked. Hawke nodded, lying again.

“I’m fine, mother. I just need to rest.”

“Very well,” Leandra said, pulling off both of Hawke’s boots. “Leave your robe on the chair by the door. I’ll ask one of the elven girls to come by later to take it to the laundry.”

Hawke fished around in her purse and pushed two of the silver coins Aveline had given her into her mother’s hand.

“Here,” she said. Leandra sighed and tucked the coins into her pocket.

“Do you need anything?” she asked. Hawke craned her neck and saw that there was a still bit of water in her wash basin.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, mother,” she said. Leandra nodded and left the room, pulling the door shut quietly behind her.

“Well?” Hawke heard her uncle ask from beyond the door. There were gaps in the wooden slats and so once again she could hear her uncle’s voice as clearly as if she were standing in the room beside him.

“Keep your voice down, Gamlen. She needs to rest.”

“Your daughter’s a selfish bitch, Leandra.”

“Yes, so selfish that she keeps putting food on the table, unlike someone I could mention.”

“Did she – ah – bring home some coin, then?”

“That’s none of your business,” her mother replied. “I’m going to the market. Please don’t disturb her.”

“This isn’t a damned hotel, Leandra. It’s my house and –”

“Yes, it’s your house, as you are so fond of reminding us. It’s a pity that we aren’t in our _family’s_ house. Why is that, I wonder?”

Hawke heard the outer door open and close, followed by her uncle swearing. Eventually, he quieted and she sighed.

Tiredly, she undressed and folded her filthy robes onto the small chair by the door. She dipped a washcloth into her basin and rubbed a sliver-thin piece of soap against the rag. She cleaned as best she could and her wash-water had turned a ruddy brown by the time she was done. She dug out a cotton slip from a wobbly chest of drawers and lay heavily down in bed. The mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable. She twisted and turned, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of anything.

Her magic tugged and itched at her, like chaff scraping against her skin. Hawke tried to wall herself against it but it was like trying to ignore a hangnail or a nervous thought. The more she avoided it, the more it tugged at her.

 _Leave it_ , she told herself but the sensation grew worse. It was like someone had tied a length a cord around her wrist and was pulling it relentlessly.

Hawke sighed and got to her feet. She lumbered back to the chest of drawers and pulled open one that belonged to her brother. She rummaged around in it before finding the clasp of the hidden compartment Carver had built into it. She brushed aside the pile of letters and dug in the back to pull out a half-full flask of some dark brown liquor. Hawke took a deep swing of the drink, coughing at the rough burn it made down her throat. She hesitated a moment before taking three more deep swallows. The liquid sat uncomfortably on her empty stomach and for one dizzying moment she thought that she was going to throw it all back up again. When the queasiness passed, she took one last deep swallow before tucking the bottle back into its hiding place. She got to her feet a little unsteadily and shuffled back to bed, sighing as she lay down again.

She must’ve drifted off because she was suddenly startled awake by a pounding at her door.

“You!” Gamlen’s voice barked. “A runner just dropped by with a message, because I’m a damned doorman in my own house now. He said ‘tell the redhead that the elf is fine and not to worry’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. You owe me four coppers.”

Hawke half-sat up in bed and regretted it when the world swam in a liquor-induced haze.

“You’ll get two,” she retorted, surprised that her voice didn’t slur. “If you paid four coppers to a message boy, it’s not my fault you’re an idiot.”

She heard her uncle swear and then slam the door on his way out of the house. Hawke sighed and lay back down in bed. Her head swam and she closed her eyes against the sensation.

As she was drifting off to sleep, her magic tugged at her again. She had a vision of another set of walls - of trembling, lyrium-lined hands wrapped around the neck of a bottle - but soon she slipped into oblivion and knew no more.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I increased the rating on the story because this chapter contains descriptions of violence and slavery. And, you know, because Danarius is a creepy blood mage.

_Fenris’s master is a kindly man. He knows this to be true._

_In the very beginning, when Fenris first awoke half-delirious from pain and fever, his master had placed a cool hand upon his forehead. He had told him that he had been remade; born anew; made perfect. And Fenris had believed him._

_In the weeks that followed when he was too weak to move and too faint to keep down anything but the thinnest gruel, his master had spared no expense to care for him. A team of elven slaves had tended to him day and night. When he cried out in the night, they hushed him and begged him for silence. They told him that it would please his master._

_And so Fenris had been silent._

_When he was strong enough to stand, Fenris had been presented to his master and his master had indeed been pleased. That day, Fenris was taken to the training yard and given a sword. They told him that he was to train, as it would please his master._

_And so Fenris had trained._

_Fenris had learnt that he was strong. He had been told that his strength was a gift from his master; that he was meant to defend his master. And so Fenris honed his strength. He fought one man; two; three. He learned to move and duck and weave. He learned to cleave down men twice his weight; that mercy was for the weak._

_And on the day when his master stood in the yard; on the day when there had been four men, and then five, and then six, Fenris learned the secret of his lyrium and a man had died._

_That day, Fenris stood with a man’s heart in his hand and his master had been most pleased. And so Fenris had learnt that his master was both wise and kind, for this great gift was only his master’s to give._

_That night, his master gave Fenris his new name. He was now Fenris, his master’s little wolf._

_Now, his master clothes Fenris in light, breathable leathers and arms him with a fine broadsword. His master is a kindly man and Fenris is proud to serve him._

_And so the day that Fenris’s master leads him into an underground chamber beneath the manor, Fenris is not afraid. His follows his master as he has been taught, as silent as the ghost he has been trained to be._

_His master presses his hand to a blank wall and Fenris feels the mildest tug of magic along his skin. With a whisper, a slab slides back to reveal a hidden chamber within. His master enters and Fenris follows._

_The chamber is perfectly circular. Fenris scans the room as he has been taught. The walls are black and blank. There are twelve standing candle sconces set equidistant all around the room. The chamber stretches up into blackness and Fenris cannot see the end of it._

_Fenris stands behind his master as the slab of wall closes behind them. The darkness is total. Still, Fenris is not afraid. He is by his master’s side and he will defend him._

_Fenris breathes out. Once. Twice. Three times._

_With the faintest touch of magic, all twelve sconces flare into light. The light dazzles Fenris’s eyes for a moment. His master walks forward and Fenris follows._

_His master stops in the center of the room and with a silent gesture requires that Fenris stand before him. Only then does Fenris notice the small indents set into the base of the floor. At another gesture from his master, Fenris bends to open the hidden compartments. There are four in total. Within each is a cunningly wrought manacle attached to what appears to be a retractable chain._

_Only here does Fenris hesitate. He does not understand what is required of him._

_“Place the restraints on your ankles and wrists, Fenris,” his master orders. His voice is as it always is – light and even. Fenris obeys._

_The metal loops make a faint click as he fits them into place. He senses a small pulse of magic as they seal themselves shut._

_Fenris stands as he has been bidden and waits before his master. He is not afraid. He wonders how he can defend his master if he is thus bound but he trusts his master’s judgement and so he is not afraid._

_The slab of wall slides away again. Two of his master’s household guards approach, dragging a third man between them - an elven slave._

_The man is plainly terrified but Fenris does not understand why. His master is a kindly man. His punishment, when it is delivered, is swift and just. Each reprimand is carefully calibrated to each offense. His master has told him that he takes no joy in punishment but that it is the duty of a Magister to educate his lesser fellows. Duty is a concept that Fenris understands._

_“Bind him,” his master says evenly. The slave scrambles at the guards and so one backhands the side of his head. The strike is indelicately performed, which Fenris disapproves of. Still, it is effective in that the elven man slumps to the ground, limp._

_The guards restrain the slave with a set of manacles similar to those that Fenris is bound by. Fenris waits. The man moans._

_“Leave us,” his master commands. The guards both bow before leaving. The panelled wall slides shut again._

_His master considers the slave sprawled at his feet. Fenris waits._

_“Stand,” his master commands. The slave moans, his whole body trembling._

_“Stand,” his master repeats but the slave is either unable or unwilling to do so._

_His master makes a small gesture and the lyrium along Fenris’s arms stings uncomfortably. The slave gasps; his body tautens and rises up like a puppet on a string._

_“Master, please,” the slave begs. Fenris is surprised that the man would be foolish enough to speak out of turn. Surely his punishment will be worse now, as it should be._

_His master draws a small knife. The slave’s face pale._

_Still, Fenris is not afraid._

_And then there is a piece that Fenris does not remember. He remembers the smell of blood rising quick and sharp. He remembers the metallic taste of it in his throat. It seems – too much; too much blood for one man._

_And then –_

_And then his master turns to him and the lyrium burns._

_Fenris screams; he screams and screams and screams._

_Fenris is afraid._

* * *

Fenris bolted upright in bed, his hand immediately searching for the hilt of his sword. He was half-standing before he was fully aware of his surroundings. The comforting weight of his sword was in his hand and he held it, half-raised.

He listened.

Silence.

Fenris sank back to the edge of his bed with his feet resting on the floor’s cool stone tiles. He carefully lay the blade of his sword back against the wall. He breathed out.

There was a faint scrabbling sound against the floor tiles and Fenris tensed immediately. There was a low, concerned whine and he relaxed again. He had forgotten about Hawke’s mabari.

The dog whined again and padded over to where Fenris sat, his stubby tail wagging. Fenris let out another long breath and scratched the dog’s ears.

“You should go home to your mistress,” Fenris chided quietly. The dog cocked its head at him. The side of Fenris’s mouth quirked up and he rubbed his hand down along the dog’s neck.

“I have no need of a nursemaid,” Fenris said. The dog let out an unimpressed huff and Fenris chuckled lowly.

“Your scepticism does you credit,” he said, rubbing the dog’s back. The mabari’s tail wagged more enthusiastically and Fenris suppressed a smirk. “But,” he added, “I have nothing for you here and I'm sure you are hungry.”

Fenris leaned back on the bed and the mabari sat on its haunches, looking at him inquisitively. Fenris let out a breath.

“It is time for you to go home to your mistress,” he repeated firmly. He pushed himself upright a little unsteadily. “Come,” he commanded.

Fenris made his slow way out of the room and paused at the head of the mansion’s grand stairway. He glanced up to where slates of the roof had given away, checking to see if he could see the position of the sun in the sky. He guessed it to be sometime mid-morning.

The mabari nudged its head against his leg and Fenris scratched the dog’s ears absently. He made his careful way down the mansion’s steps, the mouldering carpet feeling uncomfortably moist beneath his bare feet. He crossed the once ostentatious main hall and led the dog towards the mansion’s entry way. He had a strange sense of déjà vu of the few times he had performed this task for Danarius. It had sometimes amused the mage to use his prized slave to escort some of his ‘guests’ to and from his estate. Now, he escorted a dog. Somehow it seemed appropriate.

Fenris paused at the mansion’s front door and looked down at the mabari.

“Go home, Spark,” he said firmly. The dog gave him a steady look, as if considering, before huffing in what Fenris took to be agreement. He opened the door wide enough for the dog to slip through and the mabari trotted out.

Fenris closed the door and leaned his forehead against the cool wood. The silence of the mansion pressed against him. He was alone.

Taking a deep breath, Fenris turned to the right and headed into the abandoned servants’ quarters. Servants, not slaves, for this was Kirkwall where such things were ostensibly outlawed.

There was a water pump in the servants’ kitchen that still worked. Fenris walked past dust-covered tables and chairs, ignoring the shards of crockery that lay scattered across the floor. His feet had worn a path through the dust over the months he had been living in the abandoned mansion.

He reached the large stone basin and worked the water pump handle. There was a sputtering and then a thin stream of faintly brownish water. Fenris worked the handle patiently until the stream of water thickened and cleared. One-handedly, Fenris splashed water on his face and then cupped a hand to drink.

Satisfied, he let the pump fall still. Later, perhaps, he would bring a washbowl down so that he could clean himself more thoroughly but the thought of heading back upstairs, picking up the wide, shallow bowl and then carrying it down the stairs was exhausting. Sighing quietly, Fenris ran his hands across his face and flicked the excess water from his hands into the stone basin. It would have to do.

Fenris slowly made his way back into the mansion’s main hall and then up the stairs. Every step sent a shiver of protest through his aching muscles. He moved stiffly, like a much older man.  

When he finally reached the edge of his narrow bed, he sat down on it and let out a sigh. He rubbed at the protesting ache at the base of his right shoulder that was only partially healed.

Partially healed – by Hawke.

A hot flash of anger worked its way up into his chest and Fenris balled his hands into fists.

_He sprawled at the Magister’s feet. She was exultant in her power; invincible. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt and the lyrium burned._

The lyrium along Fenris’s forearms sparked fitfully. Rage, bitter like bile, clenched his throat and the lyrium glowed brighter. He wanted – he would sink these scorching brands into any mage’s chest who – who -

Fenris closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. In. And out.

In. And out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I need to thank my lovely beta reader L, who patiently puts up with my indecision. Thank you for all of your gentle comma wrangling, L.
> 
> And, I would like to give a big shout out to Loquaciousquark’s lovely story Invicta Invictus. It’s a story that always makes me think a little bit more deeply about Fenris’s relationship with Hawke, particularly in the context of his time with Danarius. So, thank you, Quark, for writing such damned good stories. Seriously people, go read it! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Lo AO3. I’m sorry about the long pause between chapters. Things got a little bit difficult for me the past couple of weeks. But, it feels like things have turned a corner, so I’m going to try and get back on schedule with a chapter every 2 weeks. 
> 
> On with the story!

Hawke dreamt of her sister. The Fade could be a terrible place for a mage with regrets. Demons clustered around the sleeper, tempting; tempting.

Bethany stood half-visible behind a blue-black veil. Hawke pressed her hand to the translucent fabric. An old sadness ran from her palm up the length of her arm and into her heart. It ached, heavy and empty.

She wanted – so much.

“Maker, Bethany. I miss you.”

The words slipped past her lips and she regretted them. She wished that she could tuck them back carefully within her heart but now that she had spoken, more words tumbled out.

“I miss you and I don’t know what to do.”

Wraiths and something worse were clustering at the edges of her dream. Hawke could feel them leaning in, pressing against the gossamer thin threads of her barriers. If she slipped – if she just let go…

She knew that she should wake up. It was dangerous for her here. She could feel something hungry pushing closer to her. Its need echoed with the emptiness in her heart. Sloth, Rage, Desire, Pride – Despair. She didn’t know the shape of the demon that pressed just an inch – a breath – away from her. But –

“I miss you so much and – I need you, Beth. Please.”

A warm hand was at her shoulder. A man’s hand. Her father’s hand.

Hawke almost wanted to laugh. A spirit, not a demon. This was all the Fade could give her – pale imitations of the people she’d lost.

“So, which one are you?” she asked the spirit. “Mercy? Compassion? You know, if you stay around me too long, I’ll just end up seeing Desire; Pride. Whatever you see in me.”

The spirit hesitated.

“Bitterness becomes Rage. Sadness becomes Despair. For the Maker’s first children, you’re all a little unidimensional, do you know that?”

The spirit said nothing.

“You can’t give me what I need. I just – wanted to talk to my sister. And you can’t give me that, can you?”

“ _Ariana_ ,” her father’s voice said.

And that _hurt_ \- it hurt to hear him call her name, that one name, that name that nobody used anymore. The pain echoed all through her; a sharp, tangible thing that spread from her heart and up through her chest until her throat closed and her eyes burned.

“Damn you,” Hawke cursed. “What are you, a spirit of Self-Pity?”

Her father’s hand squeezed her shoulder tightly.

“ _I am always with you_.”

Hawke wiped at her eyes.

“Except you’re not. And neither is Beth – and I – I _need you_. I need you both so much.”

Hawke could feel the darkness pressing closer to her now. Her father’s hand at her shoulder wavered. There was his strong hand, his reassuring presence. And then something else – a pinprick of claw tips, a terrible cold where his presence used to be. And then a flicker back.

“ _Ariana_ ,” the spirit said. Was that fear in its voice? Could a spirit know fear? “ _They are coming_.”

“I know,” Hawke said. She pressed her hand against the tantalizingly weak veil. The shape that was not Bethany pressed its palm against hers. If she just pushed…

“Maker take you!” Hawke hissed.

A blast of force rippled out between them and the divide shattered. The Otherness that was not her sister rose up in front of her. Angry fire licked along Hawke’s palms and forearms and she willed her staff into existence in her hands.

“You’d better get out of here,” Hawke called over her shoulder to the spirit that was no longer her father. It was a small pale thing now, frightened by whatever the Otherness in front of her was. Hawke didn’t care. She stood in front of the towering demon, its form a pillar of darkness and electric energy.

Hawke laughed.

“Rage, Pride, Fear, Desire, Despair. You know, I’m really getting sick of all of you. I don’t know why you all want to be human so badly. It’s really not all its cut out to be.” 

“ _Ariana_ ,” the Otherness with blazing eyes said, its voice terrible and foreign and _so very much like her sister’s_.

“Void take you!” Hawke shouted.

* * *

Hawke curled in on herself, her heart hammering and her entire body slick with sweat.

_I will not cry out – I will not cry out – I will not – I will not!_

Hawke took in deep ragged breaths, trying to centre herself. Trying to find calm.

 _Deep breath, Ariana. Deep breath_.

If her father had been alive, she would’ve found him standing a few feet away from her, staff in hand and maintaining wards of protection around her room. If her sister had been alive, she would’ve seen her standing beside her father, staff in hand and a frightened expression on her face. Hawke’s dreaming had been so loud and the demons so fierce that any mage or Templar within a hundred yards would’ve been able to hear them.

Hawke should’ve woken to her family grim-faced, waiting. Instead, she was alone. She was the last mage in the Hawke family. Her mother was probably sitting in the other room, writing her endless letters to the Viscount. She would have no idea that a few feet away her daughter fought demons in her sleep.

Hawke sat up slowly and ran her hands through her hair. She pressed her bare feet to the cool floor and focused on the feeling. This was real. This was solid beneath her feet. She rubbed at the dull ache that pressed in her chest, breathing slowly and deep.

Her father would’ve been so furious at her. She hadn’t had so little control since – she couldn’t remember when. The shame of it washed hot, angry bitterness over her. Weak-willed mages who walked the Fade were a liability to themselves and anyone close to them. She could have –

There was no one to set the wards but her. There was no one who could watch over her sleeping form but her. Her father had used to joke that their family was the smallest Circle in Thedas. They all looked out for each other. They kept the wards, they kept watch, and they lived together the way a family was supposed to.

But now – now, Hawke was just an apostate like any other. She had been living in Kirkwall long enough to know that it didn’t take much to push a lone mage to breaking point in this city.

Hawke took a long, steadying breath and pressed her palms into the wooden frame of her bed. She would _not_ lose control of herself – not like that. Not again.

She got up from bed and walk over to her washbasin. She splashed water over her face a few times, willing her hands to be steady.

Good.

Hawke rustled through her drawers with tight, restricted movements. She tossed one shirt onto her bed, then another. She pulled out a third and then, disgusted with it, tossed it back into the drawer and slammed it shut. She grabbed the first shirt she’d tossed aside and pulled on her pants from the day before. She ran a hand through her hair a few times and then, with a short breath, pushed open the door of her room.

“Good morning, dear,” her mother said as she walked out. “You slept late.”

“I – didn’t get much sleep last night,” Hawke said, moving over to place a kiss on her mother’s cheek. Gamlen snorted.

“Morning my ass; it’s almost afternoon.”

Hawke didn’t reply. She pushed passed her uncle and went straight to the writing desk at his side. She riffled through the papers.

“There’s nothing there for you,” Gamlen said snidely. Hawke bit back an angry retort.

Three days. Three days with no notes – no jobs – nothing.

Hawke let out a breath and looked around the room. It was unusually clean; or, at least, as clean as she could make it. Three days ago, she had scrubbed the room top-to-bottom with her mother. Floorboards; walls; ceiling. The water in her bucket had been nearly black by the time she was done. The room still smelt like damp and smoke but at least it looked… marginally cleaner.

Two days ago, she had scrubbed her room from top-to-bottom to the same effect. Yesterday, Gamlen had flat out refused to let her clean his room and so instead she had tried to repair the house’s fireplace. She’d hoped that she could get it so that at least some fraction of smoke would make its way outside of the house instead of filling it. Her success had been minimal.

“It’s a bit tough playing hero when nobody’s writing you those damned letters, isn’t it?” Gamlen asked smugly.

“Will you stop that? At least she’s trying to support us, unlike some people,” her mother replied.

“Oh yes – providing you room and board is such a marginal contribution to the family.”

 “Right –” Hawke said, cutting through the incipient argument. Both her mother and her uncle paused, but instead she crouched down in front of her mabari.

“How ‘bout a bath, boy? What do you say?”

Spark whined and covered his head with his paws.

“Actually, dear,” her mother cut in. “I was wondering if you would be able to go to the market for me. There are a few things I need.”

Spark lifted one paw and gave Hawke a hopeful look. The side of Hawke’s mouth curved up.

“Of course, mother,” she said, getting to her feet. Her mabari stood as well and wagged his tail. “Wanna go for a walk, boy?”

Spark barked once and shook his tail more vigorously. Hawke laughed and walked over to take a list from her mother.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she said, kissing her mother one more time.

“Yes well, we might not be here when you get back,” Gamlen said. Leandra gave her brother a look.

“What – we might not be,” he said. Hawke rolled her eyes.

“Have a good day, uncle.”

She pushed open the door to the house and let it swing shut behind her and Spark. She leaned her head back against the wood and sighed.

“Thank the Maker you thought of some way to get her out of here,” she heard her uncle say. “She’s been driving me crazy.”

“I can still hear you!” Hawke called a sing-song voice.

Gamlen swore.

“Gamlen!” Leandra chided.

Chuckling, Hawke pushed herself off the door. She looked down at Spark who looked up at her expectantly.

“Come on boy! If we’re lucky, someone will try to pickpocket me and you’ll be able to maul them.”

Spark barked excitedly and hopped around a few times.

“Good dog!” Hawke encouraged. “I could go for a bit of mauling myself,” she added under her breath. She took one last breath and then headed down the stairs from Gamlen’s house, out into the pressing crowds of Lowtown.

* * *

The part of Hawke that still thought of herself as a country girl from Ferelden was always shocked by the sheer crush of people in Lowtown. The noise was an assault on her senses. Merchants bellowed their wares, cart wheels screeched on badly-oiled axles, children cried for their mothers – the clamour could be deafening. When her family had first arrived, she’d had a headache that had lasted for days on end. Now, she was numb to all of it.

Hawke wove her way between the people. The whole city quarter stank of too many unwashed bodies pressed too close together and the faint but nauseating smell of raw sewage. It made her feel clausterphobic. She moved deftly, dodging two angry merchants arguing and then behind a cart that nearly clipped her as it trundled by.

When she’d first arrived in Lowtown she’d ducked into one of its many alleys just to escape the seething mass of people in the main streets. That was a mistake she’d made only once. The Coterie had lost two of its junior members that day but Hawke had learnt her lesson. She didn’t go exploring Lowtown’s alleyways without her staff and, ideally, at least one other person to watch her back. A supposedly unarmed woman was just too much of a target for Lowtown’s thugs to pass up.

Hawke chuckled a little at that. Unarmed. She was never that, at least. Being a mage did have certain benefits.

She took a glance at the list in her hand, reminding herself of the items on it. Salt, tallow, dried meat; all staples. Hawke considered the weight of coin in her purse. If she bartered hard she could probably work the total down to… maybe a couple of silvers.

Hawke was still working out the math as she made her way into the main market square, trying to figure out which merchants she could convince to shave a couple of coppers off the usual price, when Spark barked excitedly. Hawke stopped and looked around until she saw –

Fenris.

He was speaking with a dwarven merchant about thirty feet away from her. No, arguing. It definitely looked like an argument.

She looked down at Spark who sat back on his haunches and cocked his head at her. Hawke considered it.

“It’s probably fine boy,” she said unconvincingly. Spark whined and Hawke frowned, thinking. “We’ll… just go see if everything is okay.”

Spark stood up, wagging his tail. Hawke took a breath and then pushed her way forward, weaving her way between people. When she got closer, she ducked into an empty market stall about five feet away from where Fenris was. She drew back behind some packing crates so that she could just see him in profile.

“That was not the price that your associate negotiated on your behalf,” Fenris was saying.

“Look, elf,” the merchant retorted. “You said ‘high quality leather armour’, so that’s what he quoted you. You never said ‘weird-ass Tevinter shit made from fuck-if-you-know’. So, yeah, I can fix it. But it’ll cost you.”

“How do I know –”

“That I can do the job? Ancestors protect me. Look - back in Orzammar, my family was one of the finest in the Smith caste. We’ve been fixing other people’s broken shit for longer than your puny brain can conceive of.  So, yeah, I can fix your sodding armour.”

Fenris considered for a moment.

“If you -”

“Yeah yeah,” the dwarf said, waving a dismissive hand. “If I cross you, I’ll die in some suitably brutal way. I’m sure you have lots of powerful friends with – I dunno, really pointy crossbows. I hear it all the time, kid. Do you think that I’d still be standing in Lowtown after thirty years if I fucked with people ? You’ll get your damned money’s worth and your sodding armour back – in once piece, which is considerably better than the shape it’s in right now, I reckon.”

Fenris thought and then a very small smile touched the edge of his mouth.

“Very well, Vartin. We have a deal.”

He extended his hand and the merchant took it shook it firmly.

“Right. I’ll send my boy around and –”

“No,” Fenris interrupted. “I will bring the armour myself. Tomorrow, at sundown.”

“Sure, sure; whatever suits your paranoid ass.”

This time Fenris did smirk.

“It was a pleasure, sir dwarf.”

The merchant gave a sarcastic bow.

“Yeah, fine. Can you go now? I do have other customers, you know.”

Fenris turned to leave, quickly becoming enveloped in the crowd.

Hawke let out a sigh of relief. Kirkwall was making her paranoid. Sometimes it felt like every other disagreement ended in a knife fight.

She hadn’t seen Fenris since that day on the Wounded Coast. He looked – better. Maybe… she frowned and looked down at her mabari.

“What do you think, boy?” she whispered. Spark wagged his tail enthusiastically. Hawke glanced at the direction Fenris had set off in. “Maker keep me,” she muttered.

Darting forward, she pushed her way into the crowd. She ducked her way between people until she saw a flash of white.

“Fenris!” she called. The elf was four or five people ahead of her, his form disappearing and then reappearing in the crowd.

“Fenris!” she called again, to no avail. The elf made his way away from the market square and to Hawke’s relief, the crowd started to thin.

“Fenris!” she tried one more time. This time, he stopped and turned. For a moment, he looked surprise and then his eyes turned flat and flinty.

Hawke stopped, her words dying in her throat. Suddenly, this did not seem like a very good idea at all.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, his voice cold.

She took a few hesitant steps forward.

“How… are you?” she asked. Fenris gave her the same, steady, flat look.

“Well,” he said simply. A long silence stretched painfully between them.

“Maker, Fenris, I’m so –”

Fenris made a sharp gesture and cut her off.

“I have no desire to speak to you, Hawke.”

He turned to leave and Hawke’s face flushed. Then, she gritted her teeth and darted forward.

“Wait!”

Fenris rounded on her, his tone low and dangerous.

“Hawke,” he warned but she pushed on.

“I’m just – I’m so sorry. If I could go back and –”

“No,” he hissed, cutting her off. “I was a fool to trust you. To think that a –” he bit back the word ‘mage’ just in time. He clenched his fits. “I will not make the same mistake again.”

“But –”

“We are done, Hawke. Do not follow me again.”

He spat the words at her. She opened her mouth to speak but Fenris made a disgusted noise and turned away. In a few paces, he was lost again in the crowd.

A tremble ran through her and Hawke brought her hand up absently to rub at the ache she could feel growing in her chest. She ground her teeth and willed her breathing to slow.

She stood for a time, people streaming to the left and right of her. Then, she let out a long, exhausted sigh. Suddenly she felt incredibly tired. Drained.

Spark whined and nudged her leg. She leaned down to scratch his ears absently.

“Well, it could’ve been worse,” she said quietly. “He could’ve ripped my heart out in the middle of the street.”

Spark whined again and Hawke gave him a few firm pats on the neck.

“Come on, boy,” she said with energy she didn’t feel. “We still need to pick up those things for mother.”

Spark whined low but turned back towards the market square. Hawke did as well, but glanced over her shoulder in the direction Fenris had left. There was nothing to see.

Hawke sighed deeply and pushed her way forward into the crowd, trying to think of nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always imagined the Hawke children being raised on (possibly pilfered) books, likely of a questionable reputation. I have this headcanon where what Solas explains about demons in Inquisition (how spirits & demons are one and the same) is some kind of fringe theory in magical scholarly circles. I also imagine little baby Hawke being drilled on the many forms of demons and needing to recite back their attributes and weaknesses to her dad. The ‘new’ demons from Inquisition would be on that list but as rarer varieties of demons. A bit like Pokémon, but much less fun.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Lo AO3. 
> 
> Sorry for the long absence - life got a bit away from me again. But, I keep trundling on! 
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to my lovely beta-reader L -- who reminds me that I should never say something with three words if two will do.

Hawke couldn’t stand problems without solutions. Maybe it was her Ferelden nature, but she preferred her life to advance in straight-forward ways. She would’ve given anything for a group of merchants to rescue from marauding bandits – a nice, simple problem.

But her uncle’s writing desk remained conspicuously uncluttered. No desperate notes from panicked citizens; no hastily scribbled missives offering silver or gold. Nothing. She’d never seen her uncle so smug.

“Relax, it’s only a dry spell,” Varric had comforted her. “Just go down to the docks for a bit and look dangerous. I guarantee you’ll have work by nightfall.”

Hawke had tried. She’d spent half the day pacing up and down the docks, looking malevolently at anyone who passed. All she’d succeeded in getting was a headache and a bit of sunburn.

“Well,” Varric had said when she’d turned up disgruntled at the Hanged Man a few hours later, “it _almost_ always works.”

Gamlen’s cottage practically gleamed now. Spark had taken to hiding under Carver’s bed whenever Hawke came home. He’d had more baths in the past fortnight than he’d had in his entire life.

“You scrub that poor mabari any more and he’ll start losing his fur,” her mother chided her when Hawke looked expectantly towards the room she shared with her brother. “Why don’t you go _out_ dear?” she asked. “See some of your friends?”

And so now Hawke was drinking. Heavily.

 “So, I told him – get yourself a couple of guard nugs. They’re cheaper and the mess isn’t as bad. And the next time I see the idiot he’s up to his ass in nug shit and says ‘ _hey, Varric, the mess might not be as bad but these nugs are too damned hard to train!_ ’”

Isabela and Varric guffawed but Hawke stayed silent, starring morosely into her tankard.

“But, I don’t understand,” Merrill complained. “Nugs can’t really guard anything, can they?”

“That’s the point, Kitten,” Isabela said smoothly.

Varric cleared his throat.

“Hawke, not that I’m complaining or anything, but could you at least _pretend_ that you’re trying to have fun?”

Hawke started.

“What? Oh, sorry Varric. It was a good story.”

“I know,” he said simply. “It made Corff nearly piss himself two days ago.”

Hawke gave a wan smile and Varric sighed dramatically.

“Ancestors protect me, I could use another drink.”

He waved at the serving girl and a few minutes later a fresh round was deposited on their table.

Merrill, who had a faint red glow on her cheeks, leaned towards Hawke.

“Have you tried _talking_ to Fenris, Hawke?”

Isabela groaned.

“Maker, don’t encourage her. All this brooding’s so _boring_.”

“I’m not brooding!” Hawke protested.

“Hawke, you and the elf could have competitions,” snorted Varric.

“If he didn’t rip out my heart first,” Hawke muttered.

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Isabela leaned back in her chair, thumping her boots on the table.

“Fenris’ll come around,” she said. “Just bring him the heads of a couple of Magisters for a present or something.”

“Too bad I’m fresh out of those.” 

 Varric sighed dramatically.

“Honestly, Hawke, if it bothers you this much, Daisy’s right. Go talk to him. Apologize. Grovel at his feet if you have to. Just - don’t do it within arm’s reach.”

“You weren’t there!” Hawke said, suddenly angry. “You have no idea what I—”

“Daisy filled us in on the details,” Varric said, cutting her off. “You fucked up, Hawke. We all do sometimes. It’s not something to beat yourself up over.”

“I could’ve killed him!” Hawke retorted. “He trusted me and I—”

“So explain to me,” Varric said, his voice rising, “How moping about it helps?”

“I –”

“Look, Hawke,” Varric said. “You fucked up. We get it. If it bothers you, go do something about it. If not… Well, sometimes we do shitty things and we just have to live with it.”

Hawke deflated and passed a weary hand over her eyes.

“I was being an ass, wasn’t I?”

“A bit,” Varric agreed. He let out of a breath. “Look, Hawke –”

“No, it’s alright,” she said. “You’re right.”

Hawke sighed and pushed her chair back.

“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” she said. She paused and then grinned a bit sheepishly. “Sorry for being an idiot.”

Varric waved her off.

“You can buy the first round next time,” he said magnanimously. Hawke smirked and then gave the group a casual wave.

She made her way slightly unsteadily down the steps of the Hanged Man. The cool night air made her skin tingle. She pressed a hand to her cheek and felt how flushed they were.

“Bit much tonight,” she said under her breath. She took a deep breath. The air wasn’t fresh – it never was in Lowtown – but it helped clear her head.

Hawke looked around the deserted streets and bit her lower lip, considering.

“I’m an idiot,” she muttered.

But, Hawke couldn’t stand problems without solutions.

Resolutely, she turned and made her way towards Hightown.

* * *

Hawke wove her way through the streets quickly and quietly. She gave anyone she passed in the street a wide berth. The few passersby kept their heads down as she passed, avoiding her as much as she avoided them.

Her head was spinning slightly and she stumbled a few times on the unsteady cobblestones. This was stupid. This was so incredibly stupid. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and head back home. She could sober up and – think of something, eventually.

Hawke clenched her teeth. No. She was going to set things right. Or – well, she didn’t really like to think about the ‘or’, but she knew that she couldn’t leave it like this.

Hawke kept to the center of the street, her eyes scanning along walls or the mouths of alleys as she passed them. It was stupid, walking alone half-drunk through the streets of Kirkwall. Her back felt naked without her staff. She had a small knife at her belt and, well, it wasn’t as though she was really unarmed… but her magic felt skittery and unfocused without her staff.

She cut down two more streets and made her way to the broad avenue that marked the start of Hightown. Here, the lowest of the merchants had their houses, just a few steps up from the dregs of the city.

She wasn’t really worried. Even at night, Hightown was usually well-patrolled by the guard. It wouldn’t do to have the respectable citizens of Kirkwall harassed on their way home from their wine-soaked soirees.

But still… the streets were conspicuously deserted. She would’ve expected – someone. A stray guardsman. A couple of chattering nobles with a few hired men. Anything.

Hawke slowed and loosened her knife in its sheath. She moved more cautiously now, eyeing the shadows carefully.

“Evening, Serah,” a sardonic voice said. Hawke froze. A man stepped out from behind a column a few feet ahead of her. He was lazily playing with a bare knife, testing its edge against his finger.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” he asked. There were some shuffling steps and a few more shapes appeared in front of her. She didn’t need to turn to know that there were some men behind her as well – five, maybe six total.

“It was,” Hawke replied. The man tsked.

“Manners, miss,” he chided. “I’d almost think you didn’t welcome our company.”

The thugs around her chortled. Hawke shifted her stance, keeping her hands visible. In the darkness, she couldn’t tell if any of the men had arrows trained on her.

“Bit daring,” she remarked, pitched her voice so that the others could easily hear her, “trying something like this in Hightown. The guard could be by any minute.”

Again, the men laughed. The gang’s leader smirked and walked casually forward towards her.

“Oh, I doubt that. We should be well-alone tonight.”

“Really,” Hawke asked, thinking quickly. She could make out three in front of her, besides the ring leader. Would it be an equal number behind? Surely no fewer than two. “How much does a guardsman go for these days?”

The ringleader laughed. He walked up until he was an arm’s length from Hawke.

“Less than you’d think. You’ve got nerve, Serah. I like that,” he said blandly, keeping his knife visible. “But, I’ll be honest. I was hoping for someone with a bit more coin. The boys’ll be disappointed.”

There. The three in front of her had stepped forward and she could make them out in the moonlight. Two swords. One bow.

She took a step back from the ringleader.

“There’s no need for this to get – _unpleasant_.”

Was that a crunch on cobblestones behind her to the right?

“None at all,” he agreed. “Now-”

With a sharp gesture, a spear of ice appeared two inches above Hawke’s right hand and with a snap of her wrist, she launched it at the man in front of her. His eyes widened just before the spear logged itself deep into his chest. Blood blossomed from his mouth and he collapsed to his knees.

“She’s a fucking _mage_!” a voice shouted behind her. Hawke whirled and with another gesture, a pillar of fire rose up around the man. His screams echoed all around them.

Pandemonium broke loose. Hawke ducked as the distinctive _whizz_ of an arrow flew past her.  The men with swords were rushing forward, their blades gleaming in the moonlight. She lobbed a fireball in their direction, not taking the time to see if it landed. She sprinted towards the right. She couldn’t take them if they had her encircled in the square.

_Whizz!_

A second arrow. Where the hell was the archer? She glanced over her shoulder and then suddenly dodged left, narrowly missing the downwards arc of a sword stroke. Where the hell had _he_ come from?

Without thinking, she let loose a crackle of electric energy. The swordsman screamed, paralyzed by the lightning running through his body. With a sharp twist, Hawke _pulled_ and the man was rent apart, tendrils of electric energy arcing all over the square.

“You bitch!” a high voice screamed – a woman’s. Another arrow buzzed but Hawke dropped down just in time.

The two other swordsmen were on her now, advancing on her with their shields raised. Hawke gritted her teeth and _pushed_. An orb of pure force burst out all around her and the men staggered. Hawke reached for fire but then –

_Pain_. Hawke staggered back, her hand pressing instinctively to her side. Not an arrow. So, what?

Then, someone grabbed her roughly from behind and there was a prick of pain in her throat. A knife.

Without thinking, Hawked _pushed_ again. The man behind her stumbled back, his knife cutting a shallow gash along her throat. The effort nearly made Hawke’s legs give out but somehow she kept her feet. She made a wide arc with her hand. Three foot spears of ice spread around her in a crescent. She heard two of the men scream – impaled. The third hadn’t been speared but the ice covered his lower legs, trapping him. He struggled, swearing.

“You _bitch_ ,” he hissed.

Coldly, Hawke curved her hand and then ice leapt forward, pinning him to the ground.

Hawke whirled, trying to pinpoint the last living bandit. The woman with the bow. Where was she?

A flash of something metallic in the moonlight. With a supreme effort, Hawke let fly a last bolt of lightning. There was a high pitched shriek and then – nothing.

Silence.

Panting, Hawke pulled back her hand from her side. It looked black in the moonlight. Groaning, she limped over to one of the dead men impaled on ice shards a few steps away from her. With shaking hands, she pulled her knife free of its sheath and cut a few lines of fabric from the man’s tunic.

“Thanks, friend,” she muttered, pressing the wadded fabric to her side to try and staunch some of the bleeding. Then she turned and hurried lurchingly out of the square. Bribe or no bribe, the guardsmen wouldn’t stay away forever and Hawke did not want to be caught at the scene of so many deaths obviously caused by magic.

Hawke moved as quickly as she could, her blood pounding in her ears. Every step sent a sharp stab of pain through her side and up into her chest. She moved into the shadow of a nearby building, so that she could support herself as she moved forward. It helped, a little.

She needed to get out of the street. If the gang had been organized enough to bribe off the guards, they might have multiple ambush points set up around Hightown. But, surely – surely they’d still be closer to Lowtown, wouldn’t they?

Groaning quietly, Hawke stumbled forward. She needed…

The street and columns around her blurred. She had drained too much of her mana in that fight. It made her feel hollow and empty inside. She blinked. Her skin felt hot, her body a discordant jangle of pain.

She wiped at her eyes. Not much further…

There was a sharp cry of alarm from somewhere behind her. The guards had come across the mess she’d left.

She turned a corner. The mass of the Chantry rose up before her, perfectly silent in the moonlit night. Not far now.

She stumbled. Spots swam in front of her eyes.

A door. She fumbled at the handle. Locked, of course. She knocked. Then, she pounded.

_Maker, please be home_ , she thought.

* * *

Fenris was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing a loose pair of trousers and a light black shirt. He was supporting his broadsword and running a whetstone along its edge. There was a nick in the blade that he was trying to repair. The only sounds in the mansion were the soft _swish_ of the whetstone on the blade’s edge and the crackle from the fire in the grate.

He jumped at a sudden noise. Was that…?

There was silence and then the unmistakable sound of someone pounding on the front door of the manor. Getting quickly to his feet, Fenris made his way silently through the abandoned hallways, his greatsword still in his hand.

He paused when he reached the entryway, listening. There was another knock at the door, feebler this time.

“ _Fenris,”_ a muffled voice called.

Hawke’s voice.

Fenris stilled, thinking.

“ _Please, Fenris,_ ” she called again.

After a moment, Fenris moved forward cautiously to unlock and then open the door. His eyes widened at the sight.

Hawke’s neck was black with a ring of blood. She was partially slumped against the edge of the doorway with a dark rag pressed against her side.

She gave him a weak smile.

“Hi,” she said simply. She tried to straighten but then stumbled forward. Dropping his broadsword with a clatter, Fenris lurched forward to keep her from collapsing.

“Rough night,” she muttered.

Half supporting, half dragging Hawke, Fenris pulled her forward into the mansion. He pushed the door closed behind them and bolted it one-handed.

“What –”

“Bandits. Hightown. Bribed the guards.”

Fenris’s brow furrowed.

“Stabbed, I think,” she gasped.

He took a breath.

“Can you manage the stairs?” He asked.

Hawke nodded.

“‘M sorry,” she slurred. Fenris said nothing but shifted her weight so that it rested more easily across his shoulders.

Half carrying her, Fenris brought her deeper into the mansion and then, resting frequently, up the stairs to his room. He deposited Hawke gently down on his bed and then moved away, rustling in a chest on the opposite end of the room.

Finding what he needed, he moved back across the bed.

“Here,” he said simply, holding out a small vial. “Elfroot, with a soporific,” he clarified at her look. She nodded gratefully and took a deep draft of the potion. Fenris noticed that her hands were trembling. She sighed and leaned back against the wall, some of the tension going out of her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I don’t suppose … you have any lyrium?”

Fenris said nothing but gave Hawke a hard look.

“Right – stupid question.”

Working silently, Fenris arranged a set of bandages in front of himself.

“Your shirt, Hawke,” he said simply. Wincing, she leaned forward to try and pull it over her head. Her hands fumbled and Fenris moved forward, helping her to tug it over her head. His hands felt cool when they brushed her skin. He mopped carefully at the wound, peering at it intently.

“You’re fortunate. It doesn’t look like they hit anything vital.”

Hawke chuckled and then winced.

“‘Don’t really feel lucky,” she muttered.

“You’re alive,” he replied tersely. Hawke let out a breath.

“‘Suppose there’s that.”

Fenris spread a pungent salve across a bandage and then pressed it hard against Hawke’s side. She hissed.

“Hold that steady,” he said. His voice was cold – almost detached – and he worked without looking directly at her.

Hawke swallowed.

“Fenris,” she tried, her tongue thick in her mouth.

“Don’t speak,” he said.

She swallowed and closed her eyes. The world seemed to spin less with her eyes closed.

Fenris wound a cloth tightly around Hawke’s torso several times to keep the bandage in place. It darkened with blood.

“What were you doing in Hightown alone at night?” he asked, almost to himself, but Hawke answered all the same.

“Was … coming … to see you. Apologize.”

Fenris stilled. Hawke opened her eyes with some effort. Her pupils were dilated and unfocused.

“So… sorry, Fenris. … trusted me. I … failed. Lost … control. ‘Was wrong. Stupid. ‘M sorry.”

Fenris watched her face for a long time, saying nothing. She sighed and closed her eyes again.

“I – need to fetch the washbasin. I will return.”

She nodded.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Fenris left the room quickly, his pulse high in his throat. He clenched his fists as he moved, willing his breath steady.

Anger, choking and bitter, coursed in his stomach. He ground his teeth. This was _not_ the moment.

He made his way down to the servants’ kitchen and filled the washbasin there. He moved quickly and in a few minutes was back at Hawke’s bedside. She was breathing shallowly, her eyes closed.

She had lost a fair amount of blood but he did not believe that she was in any real danger now that the wound in her side was tightly bound. He frowned at the cut on her neck. It had bled readily but was relatively shallow. Much of the blood was already drying. He dipped a cloth into the washbasin and leaned forward to dab at the wound with the cloth.

Hawke’s left hand came up and brushed his.

“It’s alright… I’ll…” she took the cloth from him and fumbled inexpertly at the blood along her throat. He watched her in silence. When her hands stilled, he took the cloth back and rinsed it in the basin. Carefully, he dabbed at the line along her neck.

“This will scar,” he told her, his voice quieter. She gave the barest shrug.

Fenris smeared some of the ointment on a thin bandage and pressed it lightly to Hawke’s neck. She winced, and held it in place as he wrapped a cloth gingerly around her neck. He brushed his hands beneath her hair and then tied the bandage gently on the side of her neck. He tested the knot and once again Hawke raised her hand, touching the back of his, lightly.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, opening her eyes.

There was remorse there – a deep, open remorse. He looked quickly away. Anger streaked through him again, but this time it was tempered by – what?

Hawke brought her hand away and, more slowly, Fenris did as well.

“You should rest,” he said quietly. Carefully, he helped her lay down in a way that would not put pressure on her wound. She sighed gratefully, closing her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said once more. He nodded, even though she didn’t see the gesture. He bent to pull a blanket up over her shoulders.

He stood there for a moment, looking down at Hawke. A deep frown settled onto his face. Then, he shook his head and moved towards the fire.

Eventually, he heard Hawke’s breathing settle into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. He sat down on a bench by the fire and watched the flickering flames.


End file.
